


The Ninth Year

by Amuly



Series: Gwil's Guide to Growing Up Torchwood [10]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2011-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:02:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuly/pseuds/Amuly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a seven-year-old boy falls through the Rift, Ianto and Jack decide to adopt him. This is the story of his life at Torchwood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwil learns how to hunt his first weevil. Officially.

Owen grinned as he led Janet to the warehouse Ianto had set up especially for the occasion. She had a hood over her head and was on a ten-foot chain, and overall being nice and compliant about Owen leading her around. It was to be expected, though: the old bird was pushing the average life expectancy of the weevil, at least, as far as Owen had been able to determine it. As it was, years of being fed by Owen and the rest of Torchwood had reduced Janet to just above the level of domesticated pet. Which made her perfect for what Ianto had planned.

In one quick motion Owen shoved Janet into the warehouse and removed her hood, before slamming the door shut behind him. The old dear didn't even seem like she was going to try to make a move, but it was always better safe than sorry with weevils. Owen touched delicately at his neck before shrugging off the memory. Tapping a hand to his ear, Owen activated the comm. “Alright, Ianto. Our perpetual lady-in-waiting is awaiting the mini-Harkness.”

Ianto's dryly displeased voice crackled over the comms. “At which point did he stop being a mini-Jones and start being a mini-Harkness? I don't recall changing his last name.”

Before Owen could reply with some snarky insult – Owen wasn't sure what it was yet, but he was sure it'd be wicked – Gwil's voice came over the lines. “When _you_ signed off on letting me train at catching weevils, _Tad_.”

Owen laughed raucously as he jogged around the side of the warehouse, Gwil and Ianto coming into view just in time for Owen to witness Ianto level a very fatherly glare of disapproval at Gwil. “This is knowledge to be used in emergency situations only,” Ianto was reminding Gwil. “You're not even allowed to take a test to be a field agent until you have your degree. _University_ degree,” he added, when Gwil looked like he was going to come back with something smart.

“Ready?” Owen asked as he stomped up to Gwil and Ianto.

Tugging headphones on and pulling a canister from his belt, Gwil grinned up at Owen. Or, well... it might have been a bit _down_ at him, at this point. Owen shifted a touch grouchily in his jacket. Damn kid and his growth spurts. Owen would have put good money on Gwil staying around Gwen's height the rest of his life, what with the severe malnutrition he experienced at an early age. Apparently not.

Ianto seemed to be about to launch into one last safety lecture – or pull the plug on the operation, if the slightly green hue to his face was any indication. Owen swooped in to save Gwil from the overprotective Dad routine, grabbing Gwil's shoulders from behind and massaging them roughly. “Alright, kid,” he said. “Rock and roll!”

Probably sensing that good old Uncle Owen was saving him from a Ianto-lecture, Gwil shot Owen a grateful grin and was off, hurrying into the warehouse with sound-bomb gripped tightly in one hand, flashlight in the other.

>Immediately Ianto's hand flew to the comm in his ear, expression intense. “Now go in quiet. You don't want to startle her or alert her to your presence if you can at all avoid it. Weevils move fast: they can clock-”

“-twice as fast as the average human: I _know_ , Tad.” Gwil's voice came in. “Shh,” his hushed breath came over the line. “Entering the warehouse.”

Leaning back on the bonnet of Ianto's Audi – just because it would drive him mad – Owen dug into his pocket and pulled out a packet of pistachios. “Nut?” he offered to Ianto, holding out the bag. Ianto shot him a singularly terrifying look. Not that Owen would ever admit to that out loud.

“Now, when you see her-”

“Canister out!” was the last thing the two men heard from Gwil, before both yanked out their comms and covered their ears. Even from their distance, a terrible screeching noise could be heard from inside the warehouse. There was a thud, then some scurrying around. A moment later the screeching stopped. Ianto was the first to shove his comm back in his ear, while Owen popped a handful of pistachios into his mouth before more leisurely putting his back in.

“Weevil secure,” Gwil was saying. There was a pause, then some grunting, then another pause. “Uh...”

Ianto turned to Owen and smirked. Owen shook his head and deactivated his comm for a moment. “You're a heartless bastard, you know that?”

Ianto shrugged. “He has to learn he can't be a one-man army.” Ianto's expression dropped for a moment before he deactivated his own comm. “And he's not going to learn that lesson watching Jack. A few times having to ask for help will be good for him.”

Owen couldn't argue with that. Personally, he thought it was ridiculous that Jack hadn't told the kid yet about his immortality; even _more_ ridiculous was that Ianto hadn't managed to talk him 'round. But, then again, Owen had always assumed Jack wore the trousers in the relationship – few instances Owen caught them going at it and wished he could retcon from his mind notwithstanding.

“Tad?”

Turning his attention from Owen, Ianto reactivated his comm. “Yup?” he asked, voice the epitome of innocent nonchalance. “All done?”

Owen grinned. “Cruel, cruel man, Ianto.'

Ianto winked at him, before listening again as Gwil came over the comms. “Uh... I can't lift her.”

Already walking around to the boot of Owen's car, Ianto hauled out the gurney they had placed in there for this exact reason. “Interesting development,” Ianto was saying casually into the comm. “And what exactly do you want me to do about that?”

“ _Damn it_ ,” came Gwil's grumbled voice. Owen grinned.

Ianto did too, but couldn't resist chiding: “Language”.

A long-suffering sigh was audible over the comms as Ianto started to the warehouse with the gurney. Owen followed, not so much to lend a helping hand as to ruthlessly tease little Gwil (no matter how big he had actually gotten). After all, Ianto himself had said he wanted to take Gwil down a few pegs. Owen was just performing his Uncle-ly duties.

“I need a second pair of hands,” Gwil finally said, not in the least bit begrudgingly or anything. Owen laughed. “To assist with the removal of the unconscious weevil,” Gwil continued.

Banging open the door to the warehouse, Owen held it open for Ianto as he maneuvered the gurney through. “Right, right, ten-four,” Owen teased. “Roger that, little Torchwood soldier. The cavalry has arrived, to 'assist you with the removal of the unconscious weevil'.”

Gwil was glaring daggers at Owen as they came into the area illuminated by two flares Gwil had thrown down around Janet. Bending down, Owen poked at the old girl as Ianto had Gwil set up the gurney. He gave a cursory check to her vitals, before patting her on her rump. “That a girl,” he mumbled. “Still going.”

Straightening, Owen held up his hand for a high-five. Gwil cautiously slapped it. “Congrats, mini-Harkness! You've bagged your first weevil!” After the three men lifted Janet's unconscious body onto the gurney, Owen leaned on it and grinned over at Gwil. “She's a toothless octogenarian equivalent, but hey: it's the thought that counts, right?”

Gwil scowled at him. “I took two down a _year_ ago,” he reminded Owen. “And those were fleeing, scared, prime weevils!”

Ianto made a disapproving noise. “On a mission you had _snuck into_ ,” he pointed out.

Gwil shrugged. “Still,” he muttered.

As Ianto and Owen came to a silent agreement to let Gwil wheel Janet out of the warehouse solo, Owen continued with his teasing. “So what's next, Tad?” he asked Ianto. “Have him taking down grans as practice for persuing a perp? Sick him on Tosh's koi pond as practice for a blowfish?”

Gwil's pout increased as he pushed Janet out of the warehouse. “I made first contact with an alien race when I was _nine_ ,” he pointed out.

“And you nearly died, if memory serves,” Owen countered. Ianto's lips were pressed tight together at the memory.

As Gwil loaded Janet into the back of Owen's car, he turned to Ianto. “Well?” he prodded. “How'd I do?” When Ianto hesitated, Gwil smirked. “I did brilliant, didn't I? Everything went perfect.”

“Except the part where you forgot how to ask for help,” Owen pointed out. Gwil scowled at him.

To Owen's surprise, Ianto nodded. “Owen's right,” he said. The two men shared a companionable look: Ianto's was wry and somewhat self-deprecating, Owen's smug. “He is. It's your biggest problem, Gwil: you always forget there's other people on the team.” When Gwil opened his mouth to protest, Ianto started ticking off incidents on his fingers: “You made first contact _before_ calling us when you were nine, you didn't ask Mickey and Dad for their visuals of the situation with the fire-breathing lizard, and you didn't ask for help on this.”

Gwil turned away, hurt obvious in his eyes. Owen almost started forward to wrap the big kid in a hug – taller than him or not, Gwil was still just a _kid_ , after all. But then Ianto did it: stepping forward and placing a comforting hand on Gwil's shoulder. “I'm saying all this because-”

“-you want me to be safe,” Gwil finished for him. “I _know_. But... just...” Gwil growled, frustrated and clearly a little bothered by how difficult it was to win Ianto's approval. “I did everything else right! Why can't you just...” Angry, Gwil shrugged Ianto's hand off his shoulder and stepped away. He pressed his hands to his chest in a desperate gesture. “ _I_ was the one who came up with the sound-bombs in the first place!”

Ianto made a small noise, stepping forward again into Gwil's personal space. “I know, Gwil: I know. And the records show that. Don't they, Owen?”

Owen nodded. “Yup. Got a whole file on the sound-bombs, and _your_ name, mini-Harkness, is all over them. You got published before I did,” he added, making sure to tinge his voice with just the right amount of rueful jealousy. Sure enough, Gwil perked up a bit at that.

Then he deflated again and turned back to Ianto. “It just all takes so long,” he grumbled. “And I know how it's all done. I just... I want to be an expert at it all _now_. Not in ten years when I'm done with uni and an old man.”

Ianto frowned. “I wasn't a field agent until after I left Torchwood One, and a year after I started with Torchwood Three. And I was older than you are now when I started at One.”

“Not by much,” Gwil pointed out. When Ianto frowned at that, Owen came to his rescue.

“But I was,” he said. “I didn't sign up with Torchwood until after I had my M.D. Until after...” he paused, pang in his chest still very real. After a moment of silently collecting himself, Owen continued. “Until after Katie. You'll probably be younger than I was when I joined. And Martha and Mickey, and Andy and Gwen. Really your old man's the odd one out: he's the baby.”

“Thanks for that,” Ianto grumbled.

Abruptly Gwil's eyes narrowed, and his mood changed. “What about Dad?”

  


Ianto's hesitation was glaring as he looked over at Owen. He just shrugged, holding his hands up in a refusal to get involved. Kid should have been told a long time ago, in Owen's opinion. “Dad's timeline is... weird.” Ianto finally said. “But he was older than me when he joined. Older than most of us.” Ianto appeared to be thinking hard for a moment. “He was with the Time Agency at the age most of us were joining Torchwood, you know,” he finally settled on. “And then he was with the Doctor for a bit. So he might have actually been the oldest of us when he joined.”

“Might have been?” Gwil pressed, eyes narrowed. “How old, exactly?”

“Dunno,” Ianto replied. Owen winced. Gwil's expression was calculating, and rightly so: Ianto knew everything. For him not to know something as simple as how old Jack was when he joined Torchwood... that reeked of evasion. Quickly Ianto cast about for a change in subject. “Better get her back to the Hub!” he said, just a bit too enthusiastically. “Before she wakes up, you know.”

Already hurrying around to the passenger side of Owen's car, Gwil opened the door. “I'm riding with Uncle Owen,” he asserted, before sliding in and slamming the door shut.

Owen didn't even have the chance to open his mouth before Ianto was shaking his head and hurrying back to the Audi. “I know,” he grumbled. “Don't lecture me, I _know_

. Jack won't.”

Walking around to the driver's side of his car, Owen leaned on the frame and shook his head. “He's going to figure it out. If he hasn't already. And from the sound of it, the pieces are starting to fit together.”

Ianto paused, hand on his door handle. Glancing at Gwil – who was busy fiddling with the radio in Owen's car – he sighed, eyes gone soft. “I'll try talking to Jack again,” he acquiesced. “But it's... difficult. He just wants to hold onto that bit of normalcy for a while longer.”  


Owen grimaced in sympathy. For all his ribbing, sometimes he almost thought he could understand Jack's plight. Almost. “I get it,” Owen agreed. “I do. But Jack's going to pull on his big-boy trousers and man up. Gwil's figuring it out. And the fallout's going to be a hell of a lot worse if Jack doesn't fess up, first.”

Ianto nodded again, opening his door. “I'll talk to him. I will. But I can't force this on him.”

Owen waited until Ianto slid into his car before doing the same. Immediately he turned down the radio and changed the station. Kids from eighteen forty-eight, kids from two thousand, they were all the same: they always listened to shit music. “Alright little Torchwood,” Owen said as he started up the car. “Let's get your big game catch back to the Hub. You can learn how to process it!”

Gwil just groaned and put his feet on the dash for the drive back.  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwil finds Jack's psychic paper in the Archives, and uses it exactly how any defiant little fifteen-year-old might.

The report fell from Ianto's hands with an unsatisfying flop of limp paper onto his desk. He rushed from his workstation and up to Jack's office, ignoring the concerned looks some of his colleagues were shooting him.  
Jack hadn't even a chance to look up by the time Ianto was holding up his greatcoat, fury clearly written across his face. “Jack,” he stated. “We need to go.”

Standing immediately, Jack's arms were in the coat and it over his shoulders before he even asked the question: “What happened?”

Storming out of the Hub without even considering that Jack wouldn't follow, Ianto explained over the blare of klaxons as the cog door rolled open. “I just found an Archive item checked out without my sign-off from this morning.”

Jack had caught up to him by the time they reached the lift, Ianto jabbing the button for the tourist office with overblown fury. Well: it wasn't overblown. It was entirely justified. “What was it?” Ianto noticed Jack didn't ask who took it. Of course there was only one answer if Ianto was so angry: Gwil.

“Your psychic paper,” Ianto growled out. The lift dinged and Ianto strode out, swiping his keys from behind the desk with barely a nod to Gwen, who was putting bedazzled clips into a giggling Braith's hair.

Jack remained silent next to Ianto as they hurried to his car. A glance at him found his husband not in exactly the proper state of indignation and fury that Ianto might have deemed appropriate. In fact, the ghost of a grin appeared to be fighting to manifest itself at the corners of Jack's mouth.

“Don't,” Ianto growled. “Don't.”

As they slid into the car and Ianto started the engine, Jack folded one hand placatingly over Ianto's armrest. “He's fifteen. He's just going to-”

“I know what he's going to use it for,” Ianto fired back over the rev of the engine. He was going to break more traffic laws than Jack had ever dreamed of tonight. “That's exactly why I'm like this. Pull up his location.”

With a sigh, Jack flipped open his wriststrap and poked at it for a moment. “North.” Ianto held back the “No shit” that sat on the tip of his tongue. They were on the bay. Of course the sorry little brat was north. “Linking into Tosh's program... some place called 'The Promised Land'?”

Ianto gunned car into motion. “I know it.” As he pulled into traffic Ianto gritted his teeth. That boy was going to be eighty by the time Ianto let him out ever again. And with Jack's longevity, Ianto was certain he could actually enforce a punishment until then.

 

**

When they reached the pub it didn't take the work of a moment to spot the raucous group of kids in a back booth. Gwil appeared to be at the center of it all: laughing hard, face flushed, arm wrapped around some average-looking blonde girl. Glancing over at Jack, Ianto knew that was going to be his great disappointment of the evening: that Gwil didn't have better taste in dates.

Aaron caught sight of them first – not that it took the rest of the group much longer to spot an infuriated Ianto and trying-to-look-stern Captain Jack striding across the pub. “Oi! Jack! Ianto!” Aaron stumbled up out of the booth, hand still wrapped around a pint. There was an impressive amount of empty shots and half-drunk pints scattered around the table. Aaron slung an arm around Jack's waist, gluing himself to Jack's side. Ianto didn't even take a moment to be jealous. For one, Jack was staring down with amusement at Aaron. But mostly Ianto didn't care because his attention was entirely focused on that little brat of his, scowling up at his dads defiantly.

“Hey Tad,” Gwil grumbled. “Want a pint? I'm buying.”

Smiling coldly at the girl who was quickly unsticking herself from Gwil's side, Ianto nodded at her. “Having fun?”

“S-s-sorry, Mr. Jones. I'm... I'm going to...”

“Oh, stay where you are,” Ianto suggested as he dragged a chair over from another table and sat down. Next he pulled out his mobile, leveling a deadly look at all the chagrined teenagers seated before him. “What's your name?”

“Jasmine?”

Ianto nodded. Jasmine. What a lovely name for when the tarty little girl became a stripper. Ianto somehow managed to keep the thought to himself. The girl looked scared enough as it was. “And what's your parents' number?”

Tears welled up in the girl's eyes. “Don't... please, Mr. Jones. Don't call my parents. I've just had a few, I'll get home...”

“Ianto.” Jack had managed to extricate himself from Aaron's grasp, though the boy was still leering at him from a close distance. Jack looked at Ianto, shrugging slightly. A moment of silent communication passed between the two of them before Ianto gave in and nodded.

“Fine. All of you: outside. We're getting you cabs and getting you home. If you get caught by your parents, it's up to you to talk your way out of it.”

The kids all hurriedly spilled out of the booth. As Gwil started to follow them, Ianto's hand shot out, fingers wrapping like steel around his arm. “You're staying put,” he growled. “Your father and I will deal with you as soon as we see your friends on their way.”

Between the two men they managed to herd the teenagers out to the front of the pub. Ianto stopped off at the bar before he exited, one hand still wrapped tight around Gwil's arm. “Excuse me.” A bartender walked over, wiping his hand on a rag.

“What can I do for you?”

Ianto nodded at Gwil in his grasp. “See this young man? He's fifteen. I'm sure his fake ID was convincing, but you're not to serve him again. Could you spread the word?”

The bartender looked Gwil up and down, a grin spreading behind his bushy beard. “Yeah, I understand. I'll let the staff know.”

Ianto nodded. “Thank you.” Palming a twenty in his left hand, Ianto reached out and shook with the bartender, smiling calmly. “I apologize for whatever trouble they might have caused.”

Taking the note without a single batted eyelash, the man nodded. “They weren't too much trouble. Normal teenage lot, you know. But no broken glasses or flipped tables, so not the worst I've had.”

Gwil's voice piped up next to Ianto, slur obvious in every word. “It'not we were doin' bad,” he grumbled. Ianto narrowed his eyes as he noticed Gwil somehow getting drunker since he had arrived. Great. He must have downed some of those shots on the table just before him and Jack had gotten there. Ianto could only hope Gwil would hold it together long enough not to vomit in his car. The poor interior went through enough with Torchwood – it didn't need one wayward son's sickness ruining it, too.

For some reason – perhaps the drink make him bold, and dumb – Gwil kept talking. “Jus' havin' pints. With... wif the... mates. Know.”

“Mmhm,” Ianto hummed as he steered Gwil away from the bar and out the pub. “And when you illegally removed an Archive item, I suppose that wasn't 'bad', right? And when you used said Archive item to illegally procure alcohol for you and your friends, that wasn't bad, was it?”

They were outside now, in the chill nighttime air. Aaron and one other friend of Gwil's – Sean, maybe? – were the only two left, with Sean being poured into a cab by Jack as they stepped to the curb. Aaron was smoking a cigarette, looking annoying cool and collected. Ianto frowned. He seemed like what Jack might have been like as a very young man. Unfortunately, Ianto found him likeable. Reasonably he knew he should be trying to steer Gwil away from the rebellious young boy's influence. On the other hand: Aaron probably knew better than Gwil how to get out of trouble, fast.

Aaron sidled up to Ianto, looking suspiciously steady on his feet. Ianto had a feeling Aaron had a... light... view of legality, and it looked as though the teenager already could handle his alcohol with disturbing ease.

“Don't go too hard on him, Ianto. I bought my own.” He patted his back pocket, where Ianto supposed there was a wallet. “Didn't need Gwil's fake to order for me.”

“Brilliant,” Ianto mumbled. Another cab pulled up, and Jack opened the door. Ianto nodded at it. “Get in. I suppose you can tell him your address just fine?”

Aaron waved casually, stepping toward the cab. “I'm fine,” he said. He flicked the cigarette down the gutter as he turned back to the men. “Though, if you wanted me to join you at yours...” he waggled his eyebrows significantly as he glanced between Ianto and Jack, the latter of the two leaning over the cab door.

“Get in,” Jack laughed, grabbing the back of Aaron's blue head and shoving him in the car.

Aaron laughed good-naturedly and let himself be manhandled into the back of the cab. After rattling off his address to the driver, he leaned out the window and winked up at Jack. “I don't mind the rough stuff!” he shouted as the cab peeled away from the curb. “Just gimme a call! Gwil's got my digits!”

Speaking of Gwil... Ianto's attention turned back to his son. He was pleased to see Jack doing the same, some imitation of a scowl on his face. Gwil's head was hanging down, eyes blinking slowly out of sync. He looked to be turning a delicate shade of green. Fantastic.

“You're sitting in the back with him,” Ianto ordered, shoving Gwil into Jack's arms. Gwil went surprisingly willingly, wrapping his arms around his dad as he let himself be dragged, tripping over his own feet every other step, toward Ianto's car. “It's your responsibility to hang his head out the window if he looks like he's going to vomit.”

A low groan came from the center of Jack's chest, where Gwil's head was buried. Jack frowned. “Great. Just what I wanted to do after the day I've had.”

Ianto jabbed the button to start the car so violently his thumb slipped and nail bent back on the edge. He winced, sucking the digit into his mouth as he managed to put the car in gear with his right hand. “Remember that next time you think it's funny that our son has stolen your psychic paper. Speaking of which,” Ianto held his injured hand over his shoulder. After a moment of shuffling in the backseat and Gwil moaning rather pathetically again, something the approximate size of a billfold slapped down into Ianto's palm. He tucked it into his jacket pocket without even looking at it. Last time he did, it had printed on it Jack's measurements – all his measurements – listed out for him. That had been... unsettling.

The only reason Ianto didn't take all the turns at the highest speed he could, just to teach that little idiot moaning in the backseat a lesson, was because the fate of his poor interior was still at the forefront of his mind. By some miracle they made it home without Jack having to shove Gwil's head out the window once. When Ianto got out and opened the door for them however, Gwil immediately spilled out onto the grass next to the drive and started vomiting.

“Lovely.” Waiting for a pause in the stream of bile, Ianto then wrapped his hand around Gwil's arm and hauled him to his feet. “Into the house. You can continue enjoying your alcohol for the second time this evening away from our neighbors' eyes.”

Jack's nose was wrinkled as he hurried past Ianto to get the door. He peered down at Gwil as Ianto maneuvered them past Jack and into the house. “You know that's not the way to get anyone's attention. Vomiting just isn't attractive.” As Jack shut the door behind them, Ianto heard him pause in his step, and could practically see him cocking his head. “Unless you're into that sort of thing. But honestly: yeuck. Definitely not for me.”

Ianto just barely managed to get Gwil into his bathroom before the boy was heaving again, bile and alcohol spilling out of his system and all over the pristine bathroom tiles. Ianto grimaced and did his best to shove Gwil's head into the toilet bowl as quickly as possible. He'd dealt with Blowfish high on PCP. He could deal with a teenage boy with alcohol poisoning.

As Gwil continued to heave into the toilet, Jack joined them. Well, rather he started to enter the bathroom, took one look, and kept both feet planted firmly on the hallway carpet. “Can't believe he had that much in him. Didn't he get it all out in the front yard?”

“It would appear not,” Ianto commented drily, taking ginger steps around the puddles of vomit and out to join Jack in the hallway. Gwil was still moaning, face pressed so far into the toilet all that was visible was his mess of dark curls. He seemed to be done vomiting for now... Ianto sighed. No. Apparently that was just another brief reprieve, because Gwil's hands clenched on the bowl as his back surged, and the distinctive noise of stomach-emptying was heard.

Jack toed the line between hallway and bathroom with his boot. “You're not going to clean that up? I mean, I could, if you wanted?”  
Ianto shook his head, hands on his hips. “Nope. He can clean it up. Either today or tomorrow, when I wake him at six am. Oh, I'll need the day off work.”

Jack cocked his head to the side, grinning. “I'll get my Archivist to file a request for day off under the 'torturing my hungover son' category.”

“I'm sure your Archivist can manage that,” Ianto shot back. He wanted to see the humor in this, as Jack was. And he might have... if it was any one else's kid. No, that wasn't even it: if it had been Gwil, but this had been something normal, maybe he wouldn't have been so angry. But Gwil had been acting out of sorts recently: shouting at Jack, arguing with him, disobeying him. Oddest of all, he had become more protective of Ianto, always taking his side when he and Jack disagreed. There had been a few times that Gwil took his side when Ianto had even known Jack was right but still felt the need to protest . And that didn't sit well with Ianto. Gwil always made the right choice, sided with the right parent – at least, he used to.

“Tad?”

The little broken word almost made Ianto feel bad for Gwil. Almost. He saw Jack giving him puppy-dog eyes out of his peripheral vision, but refused to cave. Hands over his chest, Ianto quirked and eyebrow. “Done? Then you can get to bed. You'll need your sleep, since you'll be cleaning the house top to bottom tomorrow morning, starting at six. Dad even gave me the day off so I can make sure you do a proper job.”

“Tad.” Gwil's voice was even more pathetic and cracked this time, but Ianto didn't budge. Until Jack poked his side with something cool and moist. A bottle of water. Sighing, Ianto conceded to the small comfort and set it on the bathroom counter.

“Dad brought you some water. You should probably drink it and get to bed. Or sleep here. Just watch out for all your sick on the floor. If you track it onto the carpet that's just one more thing to clean.” With that, Ianto spun on his heel and started for their bedroom, loosening his tie along the way.

He could hear Jack saying something to Gwil back in the hallway, followed by some cursing echoing off the inside of the toilet bowl. There was a moment of silence, another quiet word or two from Jack, and then Jack's heavy boots on their soft carpet. Ianto turned to him as he started to undo his trousers. “What'd he call you this time?”

Jack ran a hand through his hair before folding his arms over each other. “Just told me to bugger off.”

Ianto nodded, ignoring the twinge in his chest he felt whenever Jack got that sad, what'd-I-do? look on his face in response to Gwil's insults and barbs. It was just a phase. Most teenagers went through one or two – there'd been no reason to assume Gwil would be different. Better than that. Ianto himself hadn't been; in fact, he'd been much worse. Of course, Gwil's sudden (seemed sudden, but wasn't really, Ianto thought to himself) change from eager, quiet little boy still hurt.

“He must be really drunk,” Ianto tried to joke. “Couldn't think of something more creative.”

“Yeah.” Jack sat heavily down on the bed, braces off his shoulders but not much further undressed than that. Sighing, Ianto sat down next to him, successfully stripped down to his pants. He pressed his thigh against Jack's in silent comfort. Jack was more tactile: he leaned his head on Ianto's shoulder and wrapped both arms around his waist.

“I hate this,” Jack grumbled. “He's doing this all because of me. I did something wrong, and I screwed him up, just like every other kid. Just like Gareth, or Alice-”

“You didn't screw up Alice.” Ianto stored Jack's allusion to a previous son away for another day. He had never mentioned it before. “She's a little bitter, a little cynical, but she's raising a lovely boy, and you and her are getting along again.” Ianto paused, worrying his lip for a moment before continuing, trying to sound as light-hearted as he could: “You two have a better relationship than my father and I, and you have a great deal more reason not to have a normal relationship.”

Jack's nose burrowed into Ianto's neck. It was his way of comforting, Ianto knew.

“Come on.” Ianto nudged Jack's thigh with his own. “Let's get to bed. I have a day of dealing with our hungover lush of a son ahead of me.”  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack dies, Gwil thinks it's no big deal. Ianto fixes everything.

Ianto shot desperately at the alien's arms, tentacles, suckers... _whatever_ they were, as he tried to free Jack. He knew it was already too late: Jack's body was limp and lifeless, his skin dry and ashy like all the blood had been sucked from his system. To the best of Ianto's knowledge, it had been. The alien fed on life _somehow_ : it might have been just sucking the pure life force out of Jack, or sucking the blood out, or even liquifying his organs like a spider. Whatever it was doing, it had to die. It was bad enough Jack had to suffer through it; Ianto couldn't let it get to any of the other field agents as well.

Out of the corner of his eye Ianto saw a blur of motion, a familiar form that should _not_ be familiar in this setting. “Gwil!” Ianto couldn't take his eyes off the alien: he had finally managed to cut through one of its sucker arms – _like an octopus_ , the hysterical thought floated through Ianto's mind – with a hail of bullets. That just left three more that were still attached to various parts of Jack's body, pulsing faintly as the alien appeared to be gorging itself on Jack.

“Gwil! Get back! Into the SUV!”

A new barrage of bullets joined Ianto's, aiming for a different tentacle than he was. But it wasn't coming from Gwil: Owen stepped into view, gun leveled steady at the alien as he stepped in line with Ianto. Out of the corner of his eye, Ianto could see Owen glance over in his direction – or maybe it was over in Gwil's. The latter was proven a moment later when Owen shouted out: “If you're just going to stand there then _do something_ , you little brat! That's your dad that needs help!”

In the next moment Ianto's heart froze in his chest, because from his right he could hear Gwil derisively snort. “So what? Not like he can die. Just let the alien do whatever it wants. It's not hurting anyone.”

Two more tentacles fell off Jack, thanks to Owen and Ianto's constant stream of bullets. Before Ianto could fully process what Gwil had said – before he could get mad, become _infuriated_ at how _callous_ his little boy had sounded – a new voice shouted a command from behind them. “Owen! Ianto! Heads down!”

Instinctively Owen and Ianto dropped to the floor at the sound of Andy's voice, Gwil doing the same. A split second later an explosion loud enough to rattle Ianto's teeth echoed through the warehouse, and a scorching heat flew above his head. The alien exploded with a last blood-curdling howl, before bits and pieces of it started raining down on the Torchwood members lying prone on the dusty warehouse floor.

Before the parts of the exploded alien had fully settled Ianto was on his feet, racing for Jack's singed and battered body. A low groan escaped Ianto's throat as he assessed the extent of the damage. It was bad. Nauseatingly bad. Ianto suppressed the urge to gag as he bundled Jack's body into his arms. His flesh was burnt, blistered, falling away in places. Where the alien's tentacles had been sucking the life out of him there were four large sores, open wounds the size of pint rims that oozed some sort of viscous fluid – from the alien, Ianto presumed. The smell was enough to turn anyone's stomach, much less the sallow look of Jack's pale, dead face. Ianto ran a shaking hand through what was left of Jack's hair.

“This one's going to be bad, huh?” Owen assessed as he squatted down next to Ianto.

Ianto nodded, words catching in his throat until he cleared it. “Yeah. I... blood loss means I need to warm him up, but fire means a cold bath, so...” Ianto's hand shook as he wiped soot from Jack's eyelids. “Shit, Owen.” The doctor's name was a plea, which Owen caught on to immediately. His rough hand gripped Ianto's shoulder hard in reassurance.

“Come on. We'll get him to your house and see what we can do to make him comfortable.”

Before Owen could get his hands on Jack and the two men began the onerous task of carrying Jack's body back to the SUV, Gwil's footsteps sounded loud and steady on the wooden floor of the warehouse. “What do you care? He's not even dead. He can't die.” Ianto lifted his gaze from Jack's battered body to see Gwil looking snidely down at him. “I know,” he continued. “Read all about it. He can't die. He lives forever. So who cares?”

“He can die.” Ianto gritted out. He knew it. He _knew_ it. Gwil had been acting coldly toward Jack for months now, and Ianto _knew_ Gwil had seen Jack's brushes with death one too many times for him not to pick up on something... but all that was beside the point. All logic, all rational thinking was beside the point when Gwil was standing there like he _didn't even care_. “He can die!” Ianto shouted again, fury causing him to act against his better judgement. He gripped Jack hard in his arms, glaring up at Gwil tearfully. “Look at him! He's dead!”

Something like worry flickered across Gwil's face, and he took a step back. “No... no he...” Gwil's eyes flickered back down to Jack's body, and he suddenly seemed to realize the amount of damage he was looking at. He dropped to his knees, crawling over to Jack. “But... I... no! Dad!”

Shaky hands – big, nearly the same size as Ianto's, now – reached out to grip at Jack's still-smoking body. Gwil brought his middle finger on his bad hand up to stroke at Jack's face, running it over and over until he was gripping too tight, until his fingers were sinking into the ruined flesh. “He can't die, he can't die, he-” Tears overwhelmed Gwil as he fell onto Jack, holding him close, almost pulling him out of Ianto's arms in his sorrow.

“He's coming back.” Owen wrapped a tight arm around Gwil's shoulder. “What your tad's saying: he dies. But he comes back.”

Gwil blinked, tears dripping down his face as he lifted his head from Jack's chest. “What?”

Ianto took over, even though he almost didn't want to, even though he almost wanted to make Gwil feel and understand how he felt _every single time_ Jack had to go through this. “He'll come back. You're right: he lives forever. But every time he dies; he _dies_ , Gwil. He's not Superman. He can get hurt. He can die. He'll just always come back, too.”

Gwil's teary eyes widened as the implications of what Ianto was saying _finally_ seemed to be sinking in. “So... every time. All those times... he died?”

Ianto gripped Jack's arm through his greatcoat tightly. “He died, Gwil. He's dead now. And...” he looked over at Owen, nodding slightly. “It hurts, coming back. Which is why Owen and I need to get him back to the house. We try and make it as good as we can for him.” Dropping his gaze back down to Jack, Ianto stroked his thumb over Jack's sleeve. His words were a barely-audible whisper. “It's never good enough.”

With one more look at Owen, the two man rose as one and carried Jack's body between them. Ianto nodded at Andy as he went past. “You'll take care of some of the cleanup?”

Andy nodded, as amiable as always. “Sure. I'll give Gwen a call to help with the scanners and quelling the reports, if that's alright?” 

Ianto nodded as Owen spoke. “Tosh'll pick up that stuff, too. In fact, when we get back I'll send her out to help you with this whole mess.”

Andy waved them off. “Brilliant. I'll get to work, then.”

As Gwil followed them to the car, hovering next to Jack's body and wringing his hands, Ianto gave him a look. “I should make you stay behind with Andy and clean all this up.”

Gwil's eyes went wide, scarred hand darting out to grab at Jack's coattails that were hanging limply from his corpse. “Please, Tad. I need to be there for him.”

“I know,” was Ianto's soft reply.

**

It was hours later before Jack revived, and Ianto immediately drew a warm bath for him and helped him maneuver his still sore limbs into it. With Gwil waiting impatiently for Ianto to return in their bedroom, Ianto explained to Jack what had happened, stroking a hand through his hair as reassuringly as he could.

“He knew,” Jack croaked, eyes closed. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, tears spilling beneath closed lashes. “He hates me.”

Tears stinging his eyes, Ianto leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss to Jack's temple. “He doesn't hate you,” he whispered, lips pressing the words into Jack's new skin. “He didn't understand. And I'm going to go talk to him, now.”

Jack turned his head into Ianto's, and Ianto granted the silent request for a kiss. Running his hand once more along the new, still-pink skin covering Jack's body, Ianto left him to soak and closed the bathroom door gently behind him.

Gwil was waiting on their bed, gnawing at the scarred spot where his index finger once was in a gesture of insecurity Ianto hadn't seen him do for years. His blue eyes were wide and wet as he stared balefully up at Ianto. “He's okay?”

“He will be,” Ianto replied, even though in his mind he was thinking _No. He'll never be okay. We can only make the pain a little less_. Setting himself on the bed, Ianto looked at Gwil. “So. What did you read?”

Gwil launched into a story about losing Kirk the tribble in the Archives, and heading in to get him even though he knew he shouldn't. He explained how he found Jack's box – _one_ of Jack's boxes, Ianto interrupted to explain – and how he figured it out. That his dad was the same man that was alive all those decades, those _centuries_ ago, and that he lived forever.

“It's more like getting to die forever,” Ianto replied quietly when Gwil was finished. “Like I told you: he dies. He just comes back. It was an accident with the Doctor.”

Gwil nodded in understanding. “It's why you don't like him, isn't it? Because you didn't like him even before he came and tried to take me away.”

Ianto's mind flickered back to Jack's lost year, the year Ianto only knew about secondhand from nightmares that would leave Jack shaking and crying in Ianto's arms for months after he came back. “It's one reason,” he conceded. “There's others, but that is one of the main ones.”

“I thought...” Gwil's voice dropped down to a whisper as his eyes fell guiltily to the duvet. “I thought it was just an act. All those times I saw him die. I thought you and Dad and everyone was just pretending, so I'd think he could get hurt, so I wouldn't figure out that he was immortal.”

“The only thing we were pretending was that his injuries weren't as bad as they seemed. It was the opposite,” Ianto explained, folding his hand over Gwil's on the bed. “We were pretending he hadn't died. But he had, Gwil. Every time. He dies, over and over again, and feels it just the same as any of us would.”

“Alice isn't just an old friend from London, is she?”

If it wasn't for the fact that a million different things were going through Ianto's mind – how he and Jack should have had this discussion with Gwil long ago, how now he was going to backtrack and work to make sure Gwil fully understood, to make sure Gwil never resented Jack for his curse – Ianto might be proud of how well Gwil was connecting all the seeming disparate facts. “She's his daughter.”

Gwil's eyes flashed at that, some of the old anger and disdain coming back. “We're just one in a line, aren't we? Just one family out of bunches, out of _hundreds_ he had, out of the _millions_ he's going to have one day!”

“No! No, Gwil.” Ianto tugged on Gwil's hand, bringing it up to his chest and holding it there. He had to explain this right. He couldn't bear to see the hurt in Jack's eyes if Gwil couldn't be made to understand. And Jack would pull away, if that happened: Ianto knew him too well. He'd close himself off again, and undo the years and years of progress he had made through loving Gwil and Ianto, through letting them into his heart.

“Gwil, please, listen.” Ianto looked straight into Gwil's eyes, willing him to understand. “We're special. You and I, to Dad: we're the most important things in the world. In the _universe_. He doesn't let just anyone in. He doesn't let himself love just anyone. Because if he does, if he loves someone,” Ianto swallowed around the lump in his throat, “then he has to lose them. And he knows this. The reason he loves us, the reason we're his family now, is because he can't help himself. Because he loves us _so much_ , he wants to be with us _so badly_ , that he's willing to set himself up for all that hurt and pain decades down the line when we leave him. If he could not love us, he would. Because then it wouldn't hurt him so bad one day. But he can't. He loves us. And he has the whole universe at his feet, but he wants _us_ , Gwil. Only us.”

Ianto fell silent as he let Gwil mull this over, as he watched the pain and confusion do battle in Gwil's expression. What he said when he finally broke his silence was something Ianto would have never predicted. “One day I'm going to be old. But he's going to be same. One day you'll be old, but he'll still be your husband?”

Ianto smiled tightly. “Can you imagine how insufferable Dad'll be then? He'll act like he's my boy toy, that I'm his sugar daddy or something.”

Gwil snorted, some of the hurt leaving his face. “Yeah. And I bet he'll still call me 'champ' even when I'm ninety.”

Ianto's grin was easier, this time. “Of course.” Turning more serious once more, Ianto took Gwil's hand to his mouth and kissed it gently, thumb rubbing over and over the scarred skin. “Do you understand, though? Dad never wanted to be this way. If he could reverse it, he would. He asked the Doctor once, but there's no use. So he's stuck like this, watching everyone he loves leave him one day. But he still loves us. And he'll always love us. All the way until the end of the universe, until the end of time.”

Gwil's almost-broad chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath. “Yeah. I think. I mean...” he looked pleadingly up at Ianto. “It takes some getting used to, yeah?”

Ianto nodded. “Yeah. And Dad knows that. That's fine. But if you're ever confused, if you ever have questions or doubts again, you come to us. I need you to promise me that, Gwil: you come to me or Dad, or even the Aunties and Uncles if you don't want to talk to us. But talk to someone who knows about it, okay? And remember that your Dad and I will _always_ love you.”

Gwil nodded, reclaiming his hand from Ianto's as he looked more contemplative. “Yeah,” he finally conceded. “Yeah, okay. And I know.”  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ianto finds Mickey and Gwil weapons training in secret. When Mickey tells him Gwil's reason, Ianto allows it to continue.

A section of the Hub blueprints flashed red on Ianto's screen. He frowned at it a moment, puzzling over what it could mean before he acted. It was the firing range that was highlighted, and apparently it was in use. Not excessive cause for concern, but still. Ianto tapped on the flashing red section on his monitor, which pulled up the CCTV cams on the screen. Ianto's frown turned into a full-on scowl. He forwarded the Hub alarms to Gwen's workstation and started down to the firing range, stories beneath his feet.

As irked as he was, Ianto still stopped before the closed door of the firing range to put on ear and eye guards. When he opened the door it was immediately apparent that his decision was a good one. Mickey and Gwil had their backs to the entrance, staring downrange. Gwil was emptying a clip into a target, as Mickey stood behind him and watched.

When the gun clicked empty, Mickey slapped Gwil on the shoulder and grinned at him. “Wicked, little man! Look at that grouping! You're gonna put your dads to _shame_ , soon!”

Ianto coughed loudly and stepped forward, into Mickey and Gwil's periphery. “I wouldn't quite go that far,” he quipped.

Both Mickey and Gwil had the good taste to look shame-faced at Ianto's arrival. Gwil ejected the clip from his gun and set it down before taking his headphones off and turning to his tad. “Sorry, Tad.” His eyes flickered over to Mickey for a moment, then back to Ianto. “Mickey approved it, so I could get some more defensive training in.”

He seemed truly penitent in the face of Ianto's disapproval, so Ianto turned to Mickey and inclined his head. “A word?”

Mickey followed Ianto off to the side of the range, a jaunty bounce to his step even though his face was set into an appropriately serious expression. The two men bent their heads together, voices dropped low. Gwil, to his credit, was studiously bent over his gun, cleaning it methodically as he kept his eyes downcast. Ianto looked Mickey in the eye. “I didn't approve this training.”

Throwing an arm over Ianto's shoulder, Mickey spoke similarly quietly. “Look, he said he wanted to learn how to protect others.” Mickey hesitated for a moment, something like sympathy flickering across his face. “He said he wanted to do it for Jack. So he wouldn't have to die anymore, if he could help it.”

_Oh_ . Ianto glanced over at Gwil, still bent over his gun, now diligently reassembling it. His face was pinched tight, lips pressed closed, expression serious and focused as he worked. Ianto felt a surge of fresh pride in his little boy. He'd have to tell Jack this, tonight. Their relationship was slowly setting itself to rights, and this would only serve to help. Jack'd be so proud, too – after he gave Gwil a lecture about  _never_ putting himself in danger for Jack,  _ever_ .

“Well,” Ianto pondered. “I suppose a bit more training can't hurt.”

Mickey's mouth split into a grin and he slapped Ianto on the back. “Brilliant! Come on,” he nodded his head over at Gwil, “I was just about to show the little man some  _real_ weaponry.”

Ianto followed an exuberant Mickey over to Gwil at a more sedate pace, hands casually tucked in his pockets. From the cabinet under the counter Gwil had been firing from, Mickey pulled out a big box.  _The_ big box, in Ianto's mind. He quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing as Mickey went about assembling it.

Gwil was chancing assessing glances up at Ianto as he set down his pistol, now fully cleaned and ready to be stored until future use. So Ianto spoke first, knowing that Gwil was still walking on eggshells around him and Jack, as much as he tried to hide it. “Mickey doing a good job training you?”

Gwil shrugged one shoulder, cautious grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. “He's trying.” Gaze flickering over to Mickey, Gwil leaned into Ianto and stage whispered: “But he's a bit of a crap shot, to be honest.”

“Oi!” Ianto snickered as Mickey thumped the big gun down on the counter and turned to waggle a finger in Gwil's face. “Better grouping than you on the .45!”

Gwil rolled his eyes, hands on his hips. Ianto couldn't help but grin at how much he knew Gwil looked like himself in his posture. “Yeah, the first round. After I adjusted my grip...”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey hauled the big gun onto his shoulder, aimed downrange. “Let's let the big gun do the talking, how 'bout that?”

Everyone clamped their ear and eye protection back on. Mickey steadied the gun against his shoulder. Gwil and Ianto took a step back, Ianto's hand coming to rest on Gwil's shoulder. Gwil grinned up at him, throwing another skeptical glance at Mickey as the man widened his stance and braced himself against the inevitable recoil. Ianto's lips twitched, and he returned Gwil's look with a similarly skeptical quirked eyebrow.

When Mickey finally fired, the shot went wide, plasma blast pounding into the back wall of the range and only barely singeing the corner of the paper target.

Gwil started snickering as Mickey dejectedly tossed the gun back down onto the counter. Ianto managed to better keep his composure, but only just. When Mickey turned around he immediately focused in on Ianto's expression and threw his hands out in a challenge. “Well let's see you do better!”

Cooly Ianto slid past Mickey, throwing a “watch this” look at Gwil. His son returned the look with an expectant grin. As Ianto hefted the gun and flicked off the safety, he silently thanked Jack – and his libido – for all the extra times they had gone down to the range together. Even with all the carnal ulterior motives, Ianto had managed to become overly proficient with every gun in the armory. 

Ianto looked down the electronic scope of the gun, lining it up carefully before taking a breath. As he let it out he fired. The plasma blast flew true, blazing a hole through the center of the target. Fire almost immediately consumed the remaining pieces of paper on the outside edges, until all that remained were a few glowing pieces floating gently down to the ground, where they went out.

Gwil whooped behind him, waiting until Ianto had set down the gun to enthusiastically clap him on the back. “Shows you, Mickey!” Gwil teased.

For his part, Mickey mock-scowled and kicked at the ground. “Well then why don't you take over the weapons training, if you're so brilliant?”

Glancing down at Gwil, Ianto was met with pleading eyes and a smiling mouth. He found his own lips turning up in response. “It's only right,” he agreed. Gwil's eyes sparkled with excitement in reply.

**

That night, Ianto watched from the hallway as Gwil and Jack sat on the living room sofa together, voices a quiet murmur of conversation. Ianto knew Jack was giving Gwil the Talk: about never putting himself in harm's way for Jack, about just letting him die if it meant Gwil stayed safe and uninjured. Gwil's head was bobbing as he nodded, though every once in a while he'd interject, tone respectful, expression soft from concern – and from love. 

Just before Ianto's two men turned their attention back to the telly, Jack reached a hand out and ruffled Gwil's hair. Gwil rolled his eyes, but smiled good-naturedly over at his dad.

Ianto let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding before turning away from the scene and back into his office. He was finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel on the archival overhaul project he had spent the last several years on. And with Jack and Gwil coming to an understanding of one another, Ianto could return his full attention to it. After all, it was obvious Jack and Gwil were going to be just fine.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Gwil's 16th birthday, he presents the Archive overhaul with his dads to the UNIT chief.

Sergeant Harrison tugged his UNIT uniform a little straighter as the image from Torchwood Three flared to life on his screen. Then he stopped tugging and glanced over at his technician. There was a boy on the screen – some teenage kid. This must be some kind of mistake. But his technician wasn't scrambling to adjust the channel, so the link-up must be good. What the hell was going on, then?

“Sergeant.”

Harrison's eyes moved over the screen to the man standing to the boy's right. It was Jones: at least there was a face he recognized. “Jones.” He snapped the word off like a frozen piece of caramel. “And...?”

Jones gestured to the boy on his left. “I hope you don't mind, Sergeant, but this is my son, Gwil. He's helped with the reorganization for the past several years.”

Armed with this newly acquired information, Harrison raked assessing eyes over the boy. He was dressed sharp, and indeed bore a resemblance to Jones. His expression was pinched seriously, like Jones, but there as something twinkling in his blue eyes that reminded the Sergeant disconcertingly of Harkness. Great. And Harrison had thought any son of Jones would have more sense than that. Then again, if the water cooler rumors were true, Jones didn't have enough sense not to stay away from Harkness – word was the fool had gone and _married_ the loose-canon Captain. Apparently all the common sense in the world couldn't override bad taste.

The Sergeant's eyes fell on Gwil's left hand and paused there for a second, assessing. A missing index finger. The kid was probably Torchwood after all. Again: Harrison thought Jones would have more sense than that.

“How old are you?” Harrison asked. It wasn't the most relevant of questions, but Harrison couldn't help himself.

“Sixteen today, sir.” The boy's voice was clear and professional, tinged with a heavy Welsh accent. Definitely Jones' kid, then.

“And this is what your dad saw fit for you to do on your birthday?”

Jones quirked an eyebrow, but before he could reply Gwil cut in. “I asked. Tad didn't-” There was a pause as Gwil cut himself off, looking at something - or someone - off camera. Judging by the soft look that dominated Jones' expression, Harrison could only assume it was Harkness. A moment later Gwil continued, tearing his eyes off the invisible Captain. “Mr. Jones though it would be...” Again a pause; again a glance off-camera. “...Inadvisable to present with him. But I've been working on this for years, and I wanted to help explain it.” He glanced off camera again, before turning his serious – serious, and yet challenging – blue eyes back on the Sergeant. “It's my project as much as anyone's, except maybe Mr. Jones'.”

The Sergeant leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. Go help them all: Harkness and Jones had been able to produce a kid that had all of Harkness' balls and all Jones' brains. It was a good thing Harrison wouldn't still be around to see the day this Gwil kid took over Torchwood – and that day already looked inevitable. Harrison knew a born commander when he saw one.

“Alright, Mr...” Harrison let the question hang in the air.

When Gwil realized what he was asking, his eyes lit up. The Sergeant smirked inwardly. Still just a kid, then, under all that Harkness swagger and Jones calm.

“Mr. Jones,” Gwil supplied. He glanced off camera again for a moment, having what appeared to be a silent conversation with – the Sergeant could only assume – Harkness, before turning his gaze back on the screen. “Mr. Harkness and Mr. Jones both adopted me, but figured it'd be easier for record-keeping if I just had 'Jones' for my surname.”

The Sergeant shifted in his chair and stifled an undignified snort. “Easier”. That was one way of describing what the world would be like if everyone just ignored the Captain's continued – and continued, and continued – presence in it. “Right,” he agreed. “Well then, Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones,” the Sergeant nodded at father and son in turn, noting the way Gwil had to work to stifle a grin at the acknowledgement. “What have you got?” With that, the Sergeant allowed himself to relax in his seat and settle in for a long, long presentation about this archive overhaul project he'd been told had been in the works for years.

**

When they finished, _hours_ later, the Sergeant cleared his throat and nodded at Gwil. “Son, if you don't mind, I'd like a word with your fathers.” He leveled a significant stare at Jones, since Harkness was still hidden somewhere off-screen. “Both of you.”

Gwil inclined his head in a manner not at all befitting a teenage boy and stepped off-camera. Harkness bounded in a moment later, that big coat of his swirling around him. The Sergeant waited a moment, long enough for Gwil to get out of range of the speakers, then stared down the two men. He didn't miss the way Jones immediately stepped in closer to Harkness, a half-step behind him. Nor the way Harkness angled his body toward Jones, as if unconsciously anticipating the spot in space that Jones would occupy.

Not waiting to confirm whether or not the boy had really left – he expected his orders followed, and wasn't about to undermine his authority by having to check if that were true – the Sergeant leaned into the camera. “You're letting a sixteen year old be an agent?”

“He's not,” Jones cut in automatically. Harkness twitched and shifted his weight back, in response to which Jones automatically revised his assertion. “Not fully. He's been working in the Archives for some time – with severely limited access, of course.”

Jones hesitated, and the Sergeant continued to stare impassively into the camera. He knew that hesitation: knew that wasn't all there was to the kid's involvement. After all, he had that gleam in his eye, that Harkness, save-the-world gleam. There was no way he had grown up with Torchwood and _not_ gone out on a mission or two.

Harkness spoke up. “He's come out once or twice on field missions, when circumstances conspired against us. But he's been receiving weapons' training for a while now, just in case something like that happened.”

“We keep him out of the field as much as we can,” Jones cut in. Harrison grunted. Of course Jones would be worried for the kid's safety – of course Jones would stress how careful they were with Gwil's safety. But it wasn't Jones Harrison was concerned about.

“What happened to his finger?” He looked at Harkness as he spoke.

Harkness frowned, face going stony as he got on the defensive. The Sergeant didn't give a damn about how Harkness felt about his line of questioning, so long as he got the reassurances about the kid's safety he needed.

“He's a Rift refugee.” Jones had spoken, silencing Harkness with a simple hand on his forearm. The Sergeant harrumphed to himself. His wife had done the same thing to him in more than one tense situation. “He came here from 1848. He lost his finger back then, in a workplace accident.” Ianto's eyes flickered, filling with a quiet grief. “He was a mill scavenger.”

“And now he's Torchwood,” Harrison pointed out. Jones _almost_ seemed to flinch, but not quite. 

Harkness cut in, shifting more in front of Jones – as if to shield him, Harrison thought. “He won't take 'no' for an answer,” Harkness replied. “Trust me, we don't like this any more than you do.”

“I like it even less,” Jones grumbled.

A ghost of a grin flickered across Harkness' face before he continued talking to the Sergeant. “We've discouraged it. For years. And were delaying him as much as he can. But ultimately, we can just train him as well as we can and how to be as safe as possible.

“And make sure he's joining for the right reasons,” Jones cut in.

“And those would be...”

Jones sighed, running a hand through his hair. “He wants to help people.”

The Sergeant sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. His mind drifted to his daughter at university, who he argued with every weekend about how she wanted to join UNIT the moment she completed her degree. He thought about all the well-thought-out points he had against the decision, and how not a one swayed her. He thought about how he had threatened to blacklist her, make sure no branch of UNIT hired her – and how her response had been that she'd just join up with Torchwood, or MI-6, instead. 

“Sometimes... children...” The Sergeant sighed, nodding. “I understand. But for the love of God, men: keep him in line until he's an adult. And ten years after that, if you can.”

Jones nodded sharply. “We're making him go to uni before he even  _thinks_ about joining as a full agent.”

“Good.” The Sergeant glanced down at his notes from their meeting, then off to the side to his secretary. With nothing left to be discussed, the Sergeant straightened his jacket and nodded at the two men. “That's all I had to say. I'll pass on this meeting to my tech staff, and if they have any problems I'll get back to you.” Just before they signed off, the Sergeant paused, hand over the button for the feed. “And Jones, Harkness.” The two men glanced back at the screen, expectant. “Tell the boy: nice work.”

The Sergeant waited until the connection was severed before he allowed himself a small smile. The look of unfettered pride that had flickered across Harkness and Jones' faces told him all he needed to know. Gwil might have caught the Torchwood bug, but it appeared his parents – whether they admitted it or not – were just as pleased with the path his career was taking.  
  
  



End file.
